


Have a Little Priest

by articulatez



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Catholicism, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6318946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulatez/pseuds/articulatez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa goes to confession and must atone for her sins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Petyr would enjoy his time manning the confessional, it was arguably one of his favorite responsibilities as monsignor and he took it very seriously. He kept records and he already had an impressive stack of notes from today's confessions.

Sansa had examined herself in the mirror before leaving the house. She was pristine in a pale blue dress that did not bring attention to her young body, but in her heart she felt ill at ease. It was time to lay bare her sins before a man of God, and it was with the purest intentions that she entered the confessional. "It has been three months since my last confession, and that was at another parish," she murmurs to the window.

Petyr peers through the screen at the young girl, pristine and nearly trembling with the weight of her sin. He smiles to himself. "Three months is a long time, my dear."

"Yes, Father..." His voice is lilting, almost kind. She offered no excuses, though really her family had been busy in the move here, and it had been hard to find time to get away.

"And what brings you back, child?"

"I..." If she says it, it will become more real than ever. Telling a stranger her secrets. "I touched myself." The words hung in the air, surrounded by her bashful silence, a flush rising to her pale cheeks.

He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “And do you know why that is sinful?”

“I should be saving myself for marriage,” she answers.

"That's right," Petyr says. "The discovery of your body is a sacred thing."

She exhales heavily, redfaced with embarrassment. "I knew it was wrong, every time."

"Every time?" he asks, feigning shock. "More than once, then?"

"Yes," she admits.

"Oh dear…"

"What can I do?" she asks.

"That is quite serious," Petyr muses. "I'm afraid that in order to help you I'll need to know a bit more..."

"What more must I tell you?"

"Did you remove clothing to do it?"

"I did."

"How much?"

"Just my underwear."

"I see. And what did you use?"

"... You don't mean you can use something besides fingers?"

"Oh, I'm afraid so," he says, with a husky sigh.

"O-oh. I only used my hand."

"Good, good. Any pleasure you gained from such a thing would be at great spiritual cost, do you understand? I'm relieved you had the strength to keep from rubbing yourself against the furniture or using other objects on yourself."

She swallows hard. "Yes, Father, I understand." But now she can't help but imagine it, wondering what else she could have done.

"Good. Now... did you only touch the outside?"

She stares at the screen, a pit sinking in her gut. "Does it matter?"

"Very much," he says solemnly. "Nothing you say will leave this booth, I am only trying to help you find forgiveness in our Lord."

"I touched the inside..."

"Do you know that the inside is meant to be felt first by the man God gives you to, whoever that may be?"

Tears well up in her eyes, her throat tight. "I do know that."

"There there, my child," he coaxes, "all is not lost."

"What do I do?"

"You must petition the Holy Mother to restore your lost innocence, that you might be pure before God again. Your catechism can guide you, you ought to know when your penance is complete."

She touches her silver crucifix where it hangs above her breasts. "Thank you, Father." She rises to leave the booth.

Petyr turns off his tape recorder once she leaves. Sansa bows to pray, thumbing her prayer beads, trying not to think about using things other than her hands on herself... on the silky flesh between her legs and how it makes her squirm... No, she tries to block  
it all out and fill her mind with prayer and light and purity.

Petyr left the confessional to walk the church's sanctuary and what did he find there but the redhead who had come to his booth earlier. A wicked curiosity led him quietly nearer enough to see what she looked like without the screen. She was about fifteen, her long hair held back from her face with a pearly barrette, and white socks to her knee, her feet clad in Mary Janes. She had been told that she looked like her mother, and there was very little of her father in her sweet expression.

The sight of the girl’s face took him back, almost like being shown a window to his childhood. It took the monsignor a moment to realize that he was not looking at Katlyn Tully, but this girl unmistakably had the Tully look and, well, Lysa had only the one child. No doubt, he had found Katlyn’s daughter on her knees in supplication.

Sansa’s brow was knit in concentration. She knew she was alone; why, if she wanted to, she could press her thighs together and feel so wonderful it felt like her soul was flying. But the priest’s voice came back to her and she almost wept with her own wickedness. Every time after she coaxed herself to rocking with her fingers stiff inside herself, she was filled with grief and rage, that she was so weak. And she was meant to be praying, but the murmurs from her lips were empty words, hiding the wickedness in her mind.

Petyr moved closer to hear her prayers. He wondered if the seeds of perversion he'd planted in her mind were taking root, if her imagination had found some new sin to commit. Beneath his robes he was awaking and when his hand reaches to palm his staff he doesn't stop it. She is bowed on her knees, hands clasped, running beads between her fingers, murmuring to the Holy Mother, begging for forgiveness for trespassing on her virginity. Her desperate prayers urge on his arousal and he quietly reaches under his robe to stroke himself. In a moment of daring decision he unzips his trousers and grips his staff tightly. She hesitates a moment, lost as if in a trance, and – believing herself to be alone—she slips a hand under the hem of her dress to brush the cotton of her underwear. Almost as quickly, she retracts her hand, scolding herself.

He sees the moment that she sticks her fingers under her dress and grips himself harder, gliding his fist down his cock with a harsh breath.

She hears a rustle and a sigh and turns around with a gasp and sees the monsignor, his hand on his…

“Dear child….” The monsignor purrs, startled. Her softly open mouth and shocked eyes make him throb. More sternly he says, “Turn back around and continue your prayer.”

Her eyes take in his… appendage. There, hanging out of his robes. It frightens her, but she can’t disobey, so she turns back around.

His heart is racing. “Pray,” he instructs.

She shuts her eyes and resumes her prayer. Petyr strokes himself as he listens to her prayers. He reaches out to touch her Tully-red hair softly and lets the strands slip through his fingers. Shaking, she tries to ignore what is happening behind her, but it only  
makes her flush. She isn’t alone in her sin. He saw her do it, what no one should ever have seen, and he in turn was tempted because of her. The image of his hand on himself is stuck in her memory, a grotesque thing that she was only meant to see within a marriage bed but is now close enough to touch. She shudders.

Petyr focuses on the fervency of her prayers as he strokes himself more intently, small grunts leaving his throat. Sansa wants to stop and go home, lock herself in her room and weep, as she can hear his passion growing. A man of the cloth, touching himself to the sound of her prayers; no one would ever believe this.

"Do you see how sin catches like a flame from one soul to the next?" he huffs.

She bites her lip and nods.

"This is why we must guard ourselves," he pants and works his scepter with an increasing fury, the fire she's stirred in his belly overtaking him so deliciously.

It’s impossible to not be affected by his words, his breathless, ragged voice. Longing for the privacy of her bedroom, she presses her thighs together under her dress.

"But I think you see now that even the best of us are merely human, how could a man not succumb? Lift your dress, my child." Trembling, she raises the hem a mere inch. "Further," he hisses.

She inhales sharply and drags her dress fluttering up her thighs, stopping just before exposing her underwear. Strangely, a small part of her is thrilling to his orders, her heart thudding in her breast and blood rushing to her throat and cheeks.

"*This* is why we have forgiveness, because each of us needs it," he groans, barely able to restrain himself until she has lifted her skirt out of danger. He shudders forward with a grunt and a sticking moan as he spills his seed on her milky white thighs.

Sansa gasps at the wet heat and squeezes the pleated fabric in her hands, tears of shame and unholy lust pricking her eyes. She’s afraid to move, afraid his need will trickle down her legs and stain her socks.

He pants for breath, watching his essence drip down her thighs as he softens in his hand. Carefully, he covers himself again and says. "You must bury your sin so it does not ignite other souls. Don't cause others to meet the same fate as you and I. Understand?"

She nods, releasing her skirt to hide the evidence until she can find a bathroom. “Forgive me,” she whispers.

"The mercy of the Father be upon you," he intones, hand on her shoulder, before turning to leave her.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa laid in bed, bare beneath her nightgown, gripping a hairbrush handle with the muscles between her thighs, teeth gritted as her hips undulate, riding the handle without penetration. She recalls again and again the monsignor’s member in his hand, his guttural grunt when he surrendered to pleasure. The next day after school, she heads to confession, not knowing which she wants more: anonymity, or the comfort of a familiar voice.

The look of shock on the girl's face stayed with him that night and all the following day, encouraging his wandering mind. He hoped she was as preoccupied as he was, even as he sat for confessions.  
  
"Hello, my child," he greeted the latest.

Recognizing his voice at once, she stills, her breath quaking. She wants to say the words, but she can’t make herself speak.

He waits a moment before prompting her. "The Father's blessing be on you. Are you troubled?"

She wets her lips with her tongue. “Yes. It has been a… a day since my last confession.”

"So soon?"

She wonders if he does not remember her. "Yes."

His member aches gently at the familiar sound of her voice. "I did tell you that we are only human, did I not? Have you sinned again?"

"Yes," she says miserably.

"Tell me about it."

“I can’t... I shouldn’t, after what happened,” she says, full of concern for him.

"Oh sweet girl..." He sighs. "The Lord provides forgiveness for us all and He provides opportunities for even myself to be saved. But now, I am your opportunity, worry not."

“Well, I did rub myself with a brush handle,” she says, her words sticking in her throat.

Petyr takes a slow breath. "And where did you use the hairbrush?"

“Between, um, my legs.”

"Inside...?"

"No," she says firmly.

"Oh, thank heavens. You needn't come so close to feeling *that.*"

"To feeling... what?"

"That firmness inside your sacred place."

"I..." She swallows. "Will you counsel me, please?"

"Yes, of course. Your desires overtook you, but at least you controlled yourself to a point..."

"Tell me what to do," she pleads softly.

"Pray," he tells her with the same stern tone as when he caught her on her knees, hoping that meeting will jump to mind. "You must pray for forgiveness and for protection from such thoughts."

She's quiet, thinking about when he caught her touching herself in the sanctuary, and asks, "Will you pray with me?"

"Right now?"

“Yes.”

"Do you think it will aid you?"

“I do.”

"Then I will."

She takes a slow breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and clasps her hands together, bowing her head with eyes closed.

Petyr waits for her to ready herself and clears his throat. "Our Father," he intones, "I bring this child before you that you might strip her of the garments of lust and perversion and make her clean again in Your sight…" he begins.

Sansa smiles. He is helping her, helping both of them. And yet, the gentleness of his voice stirs her wantonness. She imagines that he would strip her of her proper garments, as well, and look her over with steady eyes.

"Drive all lustful thoughts from her head and coat her with your mercy..."

She gasps softly, a throb between her thighs.

Petyr smiles to himself when he hears her gasp through the screen. "Preserve her innocence and protect her from the corruptions of this world, in Your name I pray," he finishes.

“Amen,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Monsignor.”

He laughs softly. "Remember that you mustn't know it is me."

"Oh... yes." Her cheeks color with embarrassment. "Should I go?"

"Not just yet. Will you be attending Mass?"

"Of course."

"Good. And afterwards you ought to pray on your own."

“I will,” she promised, and when the time for communion came, her blush at seeing the Monsignor, so handsome and genial in his robes, was hidden by powder, and her dress was buttoned all the way to her throat, resting its hem below her knees.

Monsignor Petyr had caught sight of her during the service - the Starks were a difficult bunch to miss - and made sure to be near enough to the procession of the faithful through communion. He watches her come forward with a hot intensity to his focus.

Sansa could feel him watching her and carefully kept her eyes down. She hadn’t touched herself since their meeting, but her thoughts had not been as clean as her hands. No, even now she wondered if he was thinking of kissing her. Reaching the priest, she kneels and parts her lips to receive the body of Christ.

Petyr watches her kneel before the priest and a wicked thought -- that of her kneeling to accept his body instead -- pulls the corners of his mouth into a smug smirk. He watches her face intently, willing her to succumb to his gaze.

The heat of his eyes on her is searing, and as she rises with the wafer on her tongue, she quickly risks a glance at him. The man is smiling wickedly, if anyone knew to look. She returns to her seat and bows her head, not risking another look lest she burst into nervous laughter.

Petyr smiles to himself when he sees the change in her expression. For such an innocent, she picks up on his proddings so easily.

After Mass, true to her word, she stayed behind to pray in the sanctuary. The devil is in her thoughts, making her think of kisses and cocks and the Monsignor’s twisted smirk.

The Monsignor returns to the sanctuary after the service, certain he will find her there -- obedient as she is. And there she is. He goes once again to stand behind her to watch.

She feels him standing behind her and tries not to stiffen, remembering him painting her thighs with his stickiness. Pausing in her devotions, she turns to look at him with uneasy blue eyes.

"I saw laughter in your eyes during communion. What were you thinking?"

Sitting back on her heels, she says, “I was thinking that you are just as sinful as I am. It’s our secret.”

"Do you think so?" he asks, looking amused.

"I..." Uncertainty crosses her expression. "I do think so," she decides.

He kneels with her and cups her face in the cool palm of his hand. "What an intuitive young woman."

Her eyes widen and her breath shudders when he touches her. “What were you thinking when you were watching me?”

He strokes her cheek. "Only of making you receive the Lord's body in the most perverse way..."

"Monsignor!" Her eyes flicker briefly to his lower half. His touch is exceedingly gentle, companionate, and his coolness tempers her blushing skin.

"Does that shock you?"

She nods.

"What else does it do to you?"

“I’m not in confession,” she says pointedly, “so I needn’t tell you what it does to me.”

"Oh... It's that shameful then?"

Her expression turns almost cross. "If you must know, I was thinking you might kiss me." Even just voicing the words makes her pulse beat harder.

"Kiss you?" he says softly, his voice purring. "Like this?" He leans in before she can back away and kisses her tenderly, his mouth cool and mint on his breath.

Sansa’s first kiss is happening so suddenly; her lashes flutter to a close and her heartbeat is a rabbit’s frantic pace.

Petyr leans forward into the kiss and sucks at her lip, lingering before pulling away.

She keeps her eyes closed a moment, her lips tingling. Her first kiss. Slowly, she opens her eyes to look at him, seeing something unguarded in his expression.

"Is that what you imagined?" he breathes.

“Yes…” She glances around to see if anyone has walked in, but they’re alone. “I’ve never…”

“Never?”

“That was my first.”

"You've held off this long?"

"I thought I would wait until marriage..."

"And I was never to kiss a woman again."

"Perhaps you should go to confession," she quips.

"Perhaps...but I have another idea.”

She looks at him expectantly, still kneeling. "What is it?"

"Come to my office a few times a week for a more private confession. I could be your mentor."

“Why me?” she asks, wondering why he would want to give her such special attention, even being her mentor. Beneath her ingrained obedience, she wonders what is in it for him, to break his vows.

"Why you? Because I sense a kindred spirit in you."

"A kindred spirit in sin?" she murmurs.

"In many things..."

She meets his gaze, her mouth in a concerned pout. "Should I go home now?"

"Have you finished your prayers?”

Sansa nods.

"Then go. Come to me Tuesday afternoon."

She nods again and rises off her knees, striding past him with her heels clicking on the hard floors, echoing in the sanctuary. Tuesday, she thinks, not knowing if what she feels is sweet anticipation or dread.

 


End file.
